


crying wolf out to the moon

by shatteredhourglass



Series: Winterhawk Bingo [14]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Clint Barton's Farm, First Kiss, M/M, POV Bucky Barnes, Road Trips, Werewolf Bucky Barnes, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:32:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22404184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shatteredhourglass/pseuds/shatteredhourglass
Summary: Clint decides it's a good idea to drag Bucky on a road trip on the day of the full moon. Bucky's too weak for Clint to deny him anything, even if it is in fact, a goddamn terrible idea.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Series: Winterhawk Bingo [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1443160
Comments: 53
Kudos: 302
Collections: Winterhawk Bingo





	crying wolf out to the moon

“We’re going on a road trip,” Clint announces. “C’mon.”

Bucky looks up from his copy of _Glass Houses_ just in time for his jacket to hit him in the face. It smells like Clint’s been wearing it again - his nose picks up pizza and dog, the metal he uses for his arrows and something that’s pure _Clint_ \- and he peels it off one-handed, puts it in his lap. He casts a look around for a bookmark and makes do with setting the book open upside-down before he addresses Clint’s statement.

“Road trip?”

“Mmhm,” Clint says agreeably. He’s got a bag slung over one shoulder and when Bucky raises an eyebrow he also lifts a pair of car keys and jingles them cheerfully. He doesn’t have a car. There’s a pair of stupid purple aviators sitting on his hair as well. “Let’s go, c’mon.”

“Clint,” Bucky says. “Do you know what day it is?”

“Sure. I’m borrowing Scott’s van, there’s more leg room.”

He starts herding Bucky towards the elevator. It says a lot about them that Bucky _lets_ him do it, doesn’t even register that Clint’s encouraging him to leave the Compound today of all days until the elevator doors slide shut. The problem is, the man’s so disarming that Bucky doesn’t feel scared to leave his rooms either. 

“ _Clint_ ,” Bucky repeats, tries to make his voice stern. “It’s the full moon tonight.”

Clint pauses at that but doesn’t look deterred in the slightest as he presses the button for the garage. “Yeah, I know. I thought you’d like to have some fun.”

Scott Lang’s van isn’t the classiest of vehicles. It’s better than Stark’s expensive sports cars for sure, but Bucky’s not a fan of the sheer amount of burger wrappers that spill out when Clint opens the back doors to throw his bag in. Bucky’s not a fan of any of this. He lingers in the elevator until Clint smiles at him and then somehow he ends up in the passenger seat.

Goddamnit.

He’s pretty sure he hadn’t been this easy for blonds with cute faces when he was the Fist of Hydra.

“You want music? I want music,” Clint says, apparently unaware of Bucky’s inner lament.

Bucky watches him press a few buttons without looking and somehow he lands on the weird channel that plays a mix of punk rock and meditation music - Bucky’s favourite channel, as it turns out. It’s absolutely on purpose, and the purpose is probably so he doesn’t shake off whatever trance Clint has him in and leaves.

Yeah, okay. Bucky gets out his phone instead.

_are you sure he’s mortal?_ he sends to Natasha.

Her reply is instant. _Yes. One hundred percent human, although you’d expect he was at least ten percent pizza by now._

Clint’s tapping his fingers on the steering wheel happily. It’s not even close to any of the rhythms on the radio and yet somehow that makes it even more endearing. He’s wearing Bucky’s shirt. _Why_ is he wearing Bucky’s shirt? If anyone else had stepped in on his stuff like this they’d be dead, or at least a little maimed. Werewolves are notoriously territorial and Bucky’s no exception.

_Did he get you outside, then?_

_how does he do it,_ Bucky sends back. _witchcraft?_

_I think the fault here might lie with you,_ she answers. _You’re crushing on him so hard that it’s begun to eclipse the sun. The full moon isn’t a problem for us anymore because the sheer amount of heart emojis you emanate will block it out._

_wow. thanks for the help,_ Bucky types.

_My pleasure. :) Enjoy your trip._

Bucky gets the distinct impression that Natasha has something to do with this surprise excursion. And if she doesn’t, then she’s at least encouraged Clint to go ahead with it, which might actually be worse. If this is all Clint’s idea with no prompting involved it means that Clint wants to hang out with Bucky on the day of the full moon, which is… _something_.

“Where are we going?”

“We’re going on an adventure, Bucko,” Clint replies.

“That’s not an answer, Barton.”

“Sure it is,” and he gets a sideways grin for that, one that makes him want to slide down in his seat and cover his face so his traitorous expressions can’t give anything away. Fucking hell. It’s hard enough keeping himself in check on a _normal_ day, let alone the full moon. Bucky’s skin is crawling with the urge to touch, to taste, to press his nose against Clint’s throat and breathe him in.

He tries looking out the window instead, but that just makes him want to jump out the van and into the fresh air. The wolf is already bubbling up under the surface of his skin and Bucky scratches at his shoulder absently and settles for cracking the van’s window open a few inches.

“You can stick your head out the window if you want. I won’t judge,” Clint suggests.

Bucky throws a burger wrapper at his head.

He falls asleep at some point on the drive - a shocking event because he doesn’t normally sleep at _all_ , which is why Clint could drag him on a road trip at ass o’clock in the morning. When he comes back to a reasonable amount of awareness he realizes he’s slumped sideways across the seat and ended up with his head on Clint’s thigh.

Clint’s carding one hand through his hair absently as he hums along to The Clash and it feels so _nice_ that Bucky keeps his eyes closed for a while longer. He wonders if there’s some kind of dog DNA mixed in with the wolf.

Eventually he has to sit up, and then he squints at the restaurant Clint’s turning into. “Are we in _Ohio?_ ”

“Yeah,” Clint answers distractedly as he pulls up to the drive-thru speaker. “Hey, I ordered through mobile, order four-three-seven-seven - did you want mayo on your chicken burger, Buck? It’s pretty rank here, I wouldn’t recommend it, but it’s your call.”

“Mayonnaise is rank anyway,” Bucky replies without thinking.

“Yeah, no mayo, and can we throw in the strongest coffee you’re allowed to sell? Thanks.”

He looks at the clock on the radio, feels a pang of anxiety. “Are we going to be able to get back to the Compound before nightfall?”

“Nah,” Clint says. “It’s fine. Look, food!”

Bucky gets through two burgers and a metric fuck-ton of fries before he actually registers Clint’s answer, and then he’s got too much in his mouth to actually say anything. It comes out as an incomprehensible jumble of sounds and he nearly spits out his food. _No?_ Is Clint kidding? Is this some kind of a weird Barton-esque joke?

“Did I ever tell you that it _sucks_ that greasy food doesn’t do anything to a supersoldier?” Clint comments through a mouthful of food. “D’you know how many laps I’m gonna have to do to burn this off?”

“None. You don’t exercise unless you have to,” Bucky answers dryly, once he’s swallowed.

“You got me there,” Clint returns cheerfully. His coffee is big enough that he can’t even hold it in one hand. Bucky would be horrified if he wasn’t already aware of Clint’s absurd addiction to the stuff. Clint’s gotten _him_ a lemonade, which is- it’s kind of sweet that he remembers what Bucky likes, to be honest.

Clint’s right, though. He doesn’t need to exercise anymore. If he did, it’d send Bucky into more heart palpitations than usual. Maybe Bucky should make him eat more greasy food than usual- except that wouldn’t work, because Bucky’s attraction to Clint doesn’t seem to go away no matter what, so a little weight certainly isn’t going to do anything.

Clint starts driving again as he tells a very involved story about a flamingo, a jackhammer and a tiny hotel in Lithuania with a horrifyingly misspelled name. He leads a very colourful life. Bucky’s begrudgingly interested, and he forgets to panic about where they are until the afternoon sunlight is streaming through the window and there’s only fields to be seen outside.

“-and that’s why I’m banned from returning,” Clint finishes. “The ice cream there is real good, though. We should get Nat to bring some back for us.”

The wolf is getting more persistent. “ _Clint._ ”

“Yeah?”

Clint’s got his eyes on the road so Bucky can’t stare him down, but he still tries. There’s a hint of a smile on Clint’s face, nothing that would suggest he had a death wish. He’s got to have a death wish though, putting himself in a confined space with a goddamn _werewolf_ on today of all days. He’s best friends with Natasha, he should already know this.

“Tell me this isn’t some kind of self-destructive bullshit,” Bucky says, tries not to make it begging.

“I stopped doing that in March,” Clint replies, tapping at the steering wheel in a familiar rhythm that Bucky can't recall. “Got a therapist now, she doesn’t put up with my bullshit. Or she does, but not enough to let me be self-destructive. Can you believe I got in my thirties before someone suggested I might have ADHD?”

Huh. Clint and therapy aren’t something he’d imagined working. It’s nice, though, knowing he’s working to help himself. Bucky makes a mental note to look up whatever ADHD is later and learn about it.

“You’re still not telling me where we’re goin’,” Bucky says, anxiety bleeding into his overactive brain. It doesn’t help that the full moon makes him twitchy. “The wolf ain’t one for being stuck in dinky little vans, Barton.”

“The wolf isn’t gonna be stuck in a dinky little van,” Clint answers, glances at him. His eyes are bright and a little mischievous, and Bucky’s not sure if it’s him or the wolf that wants to pounce.

Either way he doesn’t really comprehend Clint’s words. “Tell me what this is all about or I’m getting out and walking into a cornfield.”

“There’s plenty of them,” Clint says reasonably. When Bucky looks out the window he realizes they’ve moved into farmlands, long rolling fields with no sign of any buildings. There _is_ a lot of corn out there. There’s also the sun, which by the looks of it isn’t going to be up for long.

Bucky turns his stare back on Clint.

Clint sighs and runs his hand through his hair. He ends up accidentally knocking his sunglasses off of his head and reaches around to find them without looking, and Bucky realizes he’s been driving one-handed most of the time. He’s pretty sure that’s not technically _legal_ , but Clint is a surprisingly decent driver.

Clint finds his glasses and tucks them into the neck of his shirt instead, and it tugs the fabric down enough for a sliver of tanned chest. Bucky’s eyes get stuck on it, and on the lacing of scars he can see where the cotton is out of the way. He wants to lick it. God _damnit_.

“Clint,” he says again, can’t quite remember what he was talking about.

“I keep watch, y’know,” Clint says. “On the full moon. Nat asked me to, when you first joined up with us.”

“As a safety precaution?”

“Sort of,” comes the answer, along with a one-shouldered shrug. He doesn’t elaborate. “That box of yours is pretty small. Lotta banging and clawing to get out.”

Bucky tears his gaze away from Clint, looks down at his mismatched hands instead. He’s aware enough during the change that he remembers the feeling, the wolf’s rage and fear at being trapped. It’s not great. Clint _watches_ that? No wonder he always looks as tired as Bucky does every thirty days.

Clint looks away from the road - and really, how does he do that for a prolonged amount of time without killing anyone? - and fixes him with a look that’s somewhere between affection and exasperation. Bucky’s heart does a funny thing inside his chest. “Trust me?”

He _does_ trust Clint. He’s not entirely sure he trusts himself, though. The sun’s going down. “Where are we going, Barton?”

“We’re here,” Clint announces, turns his attention back to the dirt road in time to swerve into a gap in the fence. Bucky tears his eyes away from Clint to see a darkened farmhouse and a decrepit-looking barn. “C’mon, out. You’re right, this van is terrible. My knees hurt.”

“Oh, your joints ache,” Bucky says dryly. “Who’s the older one here again?”

“That’s not fair, you don’t even _age_ , you dick,” comes the grumbled reply.

“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky answers, gets out the van. It feels like he’s vibrating as he glances up at the sky nervously, at the sun that’s slowly disappearing. It’s painted the sky orange and pink, and the light catches off of Clint’s hair and turns it gold. Bucky’s about to crawl out of his skin - quite literally, maybe - and he gives Clint a look that’s probably more panic than anything else.

Clint spreads his arms out. “Welcome to Barton Farm, Iowa. Technically I inherited when I was eighteen, but I don’t use it that often. Now it’s a werewolf roaming zone.”

“ _What?_ ”

“I know Hydra didn’t give you free reign,” Clint says. “And you’re not getting any in New York. Thought you might like a little bit of freedom.”

“Clint, I’m- that’s not _safe_.”

“It kind of is. We’re totally isolated out here. You can run in any direction for hours and you probably won’t find anything bigger than a rabbit to hunt,” Clint reasons, opens the back of the van. He finds the duffel bag from earlier and tugs it out, rummages around inside. Bucky’s frozen to the spot as Clint finds a thermos and an old gaming device, sits himself down without a concern in the world.

He’s running out of brain power. “What about you?”

Clint’s device turns on with a cheerful ding and soft beeps of music come from the tinny speakers. Clint leans back against the van wall, kicks up a leg. “I’m going to be playing Animal Crossing. And no, I’m not sharing my coffee with you.”

“That’s too much coffee,” Bucky says automatically. Then, “Clint. You’re in the wilderness with a goddamn _werewolf_ on the full moon. What the fuck were you thinking?”

“I was thinking you deserve more than a shitty little cage that you beat yourself bloody on,” Clint says without looking up. “Worst comes to worst, I have a dart gun in my jacket. Just tranquilizers, though.”

It’s not even _his_ jacket. Somewhere along the drive he’s reclaimed Bucky’s and now it’s sitting across Clint’s broad shoulder, a little strained-looking where his biceps have pulled it taut. Bucky doesn’t know if he’s supposed to laugh or collapse from the sheer wave of want that sweeps over him.

More insistent than that, though, is the pull of the moon, and he has to clap a hand over his mouth to cover his teeth elongating. Clint remains unbothered by this, even goes so far as to start playing his game without looking up. Shit. _Fuck_. He’s got to get away before it’s too late and Clint is forced to use those darts.

His knees are trembling as he stumbles for the line of trees he can see in the distance.

Bucky knows _logically_ that it’s only a short walk, but it doesn’t _feel_ like one. Certainly not when he can taste the blood in his mouth and every inch of denim against his skin feels like fire, like a sweet kind of torture that stops just short of relief. His legs give out before he gets there and he drops to his knees hard, hands fisted in the yellowed grass.

“God _damnit_ , Clint,” is all he manages to gasp out before his vocal cords twist into something else.

Then the wolf takes over.

It’s confusing, at first. He twists around curiously and sniffs the air, catches whiffs of things that aren’t blood and steel and pain. This doesn’t make sense to the wolf. It’s only ever known cages and frightened prey thrown in with the cage, people with sticks that burn his skin.

Instead an owl hoots in the distance, and the wolf raises his head and howls.

The wolf runs, and he runs, and he _runs_. He finds a rabbit burrow, sticks his nose into it curiously and springs back when he realizes there’s creatures inside. The grass and dirt sticks to his claws and he stops to inspect it, speeding off when a bird screams above.

It gets hazy after that.

It’s _freedom_ in the most pure sense of the word, and if the wolf can feel something like joy then that’s what he feels.

Eventually the sky grows lighter and the wolf turns back, picks up a scent that registers as familiar and heads in that direction. The trees thin out into fields again and he spots a figure moving in the distance. _Human_ , he registers, and then a wordless swell of warmth that means something more than pack, and the wolf heads for the tall man.

“Just in time,” the man calls to the wolf. “You like bacon, Barnes?”

This man smells like the wolf.

The wolf breaks into a run and lunges at the man, knocking him to the grass. The man submits to the treatment willingly, laughs giddily when the wolf begins to lick his stubbled face with enthusiasm. His hands rub at the wolf’s sides after a moment, fingers digging deep into the thick fur to scratch, and the wolf leans into it.

Bucky doesn’t even realized he’s changed back until his lips brush Clint’s throat. Clint makes a sound that’s more of a breathless gasp than anything else and Bucky vaguely realizes his whole weight is on top of Clint, manages to brace himself on his elbows instead.

“You’re an idiot,” Bucky says when he remembers how a human mouth works. "Risky fuckin'... idiot."

Clint’s grinning, so he can’t be too upset about being squashed by a good two hundred and sixty pounds of super-soldier. “So. Was it good?”

“Fucking _hell_ , Clint,” Bucky answers breathlessly, hands in the grass on either side of his head. He feels high as a kite, giddy off of the sensation of freedom and the wind through his fur.

He’s aware in a vague sort of way that he’s naked right now.

He’s naked and he’s pressed up close enough to Clint to feel every inch of fabric between them. There’s no room to be more than a little embarrassed about it, though, not when he’s felt this good in _decades_. Clint’s cheeks are a little flushed but his gaze is fixed firmly on Bucky’s face and he doesn’t stray, not even when Bucky squirms, like he’s determined to be a gentleman about this.

Bucky’s got to kiss him.

It’s surprisingly normal when his lips touch Clint’s.

Bucky’s been thinking about it for so long he’s half-expecting fireworks. It’s nothing like that. The world doesn’t explode into rainbows and sunshine. It’s _better_ , actually, because all he can feel is Clint underneath him and the dirt under his fingernails and the way Clint just _lets_ Bucky kiss him breathless.

“Oh wow,” is all Clint has to say when Bucky pulls back.

Somewhere during the kissing Clint’s hands have ended up on his face, gently framing his cheeks like Clint’s touching something precious and fragile. He blinks up at Bucky, a little disoriented-looking with his pupils blown wide.

They blink at each other for a few long moments as Bucky registers what he’s just done. He might be blushing. He might’ve just spontaneously caught on fire instead, but he doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter. He could burn to a crisp as long as he still gets the memory of Clint’s mouth on his.

“Take it I did good,” Clint says eventually, the smile creeping back onto his face. He’s got dirt smeared on his cheek.

“Guess you did,” Bucky answers hoarsely. “Shit, Clint. How did you know I wouldn’t kill you?”

“I didn’t,” Clint replies cheerfully.

What an idiot.

Bucky kisses him again anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> Title Song: [Victoria - Jukebox The Ghost](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1kIVhoCLuzw)  
> Winterhawk Bingo Square: Vampire/WW AU


End file.
